


heaven spot

by nante



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Activist Steve Rogers, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Artist Steve Rogers, Costume Parties & Masquerades, Graffiti, How Did I Come Up With This, Howard Stark's A+ Parenting, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, In a way, M/M, More tags to be added, Nomad Steve Rogers, Past Abuse, Past Child Abuse, Secret Identity, Tony Being Tony, Younger Tony
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-08
Updated: 2018-08-19
Packaged: 2019-06-23 19:06:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15612972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nante/pseuds/nante
Summary: Howard Stark, CEO and founder of Stark Industries—world famous war profiteer, engineer, and father of Anthony Stark.You’d think he’d be capable of handling one little street artist.Well, maybe not one who decided to plaster a 50-foot-tall graffiti painting on the front of Stark Tower.Tony may or may not find the entire situation hilarious,until he meets the guy—he thinks?(Steve is an over the top graffiti artist and Tony is Tony.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anything’s a canvas if you’re brave enough

The soft purr of the capstan’s motor is comforting as he bolts it down to the flat roof and turns it on. He’s surprised he’s managed to get up here—the very top of the tower, above the fancy balcony. He’d expected security to be tight. Even though he’d brought all his equipment with him, he had expected to be caught and pending arrest by now.

The things he does in the name of…

The figure, clad in black, hooks both sides of his harness to the bolted capstan’s rope lock. He puts his bag on backwards so it’s open at his chest and takes a moment to stare at the sky. It’s cold out—winter in New York is cold and he easily convinces himself that the cold is what’s making him shake. He takes a deep breath, counts to three, and harshly pulls at the rope to confirm it’s secure. And then he descends. He lowers himself down, down, down until he’s at his starting point. He removes the first half of the stencil from his bag, a can of paint, and grins a bit as he thoroughly begins to _vandalize—expose_ Stark Tower.

In the name of art, justice, and _truth._

***

Tony wants to laugh, he really, really wants to laugh.

He’d rather not get slapped in the face in front of his father’s press team.

But the more Howard, red-faced and royally pissed off, yells about the disgusting graffiti spreading lies about his company, the more Tony wants to high-five the guy responsible.

He wonders who had the balls to unnoticeably breach Stark security, mount the peak of the tower, and stencil graffiti onto the front wall extending above the balcony floor. Tony thinks it’s absolutely brilliant. Quite bold, but nevertheless brilliant. And well, _wow_ does it get the point across.

The stencil is of a dripping red peace sign, painted by two soldiers with a bucket full of blood. The soldiers are holding Stark guns.

 _Brilliant_ , Tony thinks again as Howard slams his hand on the table. Everyone—the public relations officer, the CTO, CIO, and COO, even the head of security—flinches a little, and Tony is suddenly much more conscious of the door frame pressing against his arm.

“I said I want it gone **now!** ” Howard screams and for once Tony is glad it’s not at him. Still, his father is angry. And that only means he’s in the eye of the hurricane watching the storm that is a fortune 500 tycoon pour down on everyone else. “If it isn’t gone by noon you’re all fired.” The rage hiding behind Howard’s eyes, even when his voice is calm, is quite more terrifying than his yell, anyway. “Actually, better yet,” Howard raises an arm and motions to the public relations officer, a man named Ethan who’s worked at SI for _years_ , and to the head of security, Pascal. The same Pascal who’d helped Tony dodge Howard’s hand multiple times in the case of…lab mishaps. “You two are fired. On your way out, send in people who aren’t useless at their jobs.”

Tony swallows. He doesn’t meet Pascal’s eyes when the man walks past him out the door.

He instead watches his father, watches him fire two hardworking men like they were worth nothing, and then begin to walk out the door once they’ve gone.

“Anthony. Do you know what you learned in that fifteen minutes?” Howard asks him when Tony wordlessly follows his father out into the hallway. Rhetorical, Tony knows, but he wants to tell his father that firing people who he’d been patting on the back only twelve hours ago isn’t much of a lesson.

Now that he’s out of school, he’s often being forced to shadow his father. It’s tiring and dull and Howard spits when he yells.

“You get rid of incompetence. Preferably before it spreads. One useless cocksucker spreads like AIDs from…”

Tony tunes him out and refrains from digging his index fingers into his temples. He wants Advil, but he knows he’d left the little bottle of bliss in his car. That doesn’t stop him moving his fingers around in his pockets as if it’s going to appear there.

“Anthony—Did you hear me? _Anthony?!_ ” Tony blinks and jerkily nods in response.

Howard gives him a hard stare but keeps talking. “Leave. Check the progress of whatever you submitted to R&D, leave, and be back by ten. You’ll dress accordingly, mask included.”

Tony nods again. He turns on his heel and briskly walks away from his father. _A fucking masquerade party._ He finally lets out a chuckle when he’s out of earshot of Howard, albeit a pained one. Tony thinks whatever dolt had decided to do graffiti on Stark Tower the night before Howard’s famed socialite gathering is a brilliant. Outrageously so. Every billionaire and his trophy wife will be at the damned thing. A whimsical, stuck up penthouse “ball” where there might as well be cocaine dispensaries in the bathrooms. This year, Howard himself had chosen the theme, announcing it to story-starved journalists who’d stuck around a few minutes after the end of a press-conference. _A masked ball._ His father is no stick in the mud when it comes to strategic mingling.

When he finishes with R&D, Tony practically runs to the elevators that lead to the parking garage, antsy and quite obviously annoyed with his pounding head. He ignores elevator etiquette when he reaches them, and quite painfully runs right into the exiting party of one. The _conk_ of their foreheads slamming together makes him reel back in pain, and Tony cusses to himself.

“Fuck. Sorry. Is it bad if I ask you for directions—I’m here for the security briefing for the event? It’s a one time thing and I don’t really know my way,” The man motions to the area behind Tony. “around here.”

Tony looks the man over. Long-ish brown hair tied into a neat bun, trimmed facial hair. Tall, built, what Tony would definitely call handsome. He momentarily thinks of how Howard had just fired two good people, and decides not to let himself be an asshole just because his head hurts. “Security briefing… Try floor five, first hall you see. Should be one of those rooms.” He waves a hand to acknowledge the man’s thanks, and continues his way into the elevator. As soon as he’s out, Tony beelines to his car, popping three Advil tablets into his mouth seconds after getting in.

_It’s going to be a long night._

***

Steve, by name, is pretty much a nobody. He has a normal social life, a small group of close friends, acquaintances from college, extended family he doesn’t talk to—things like that. Steve is a law-abiding citizen. He doesn’t do much to attract attention, he wears clothes that don’t make him stand out—his hair cut is basic, even his name—Steven Grant Rogers—doesn’t have much merit or pizzazz. For lack of better wording, he’d describe himself with the cliché: “average, every day guy.”

He manages an art store in Brooklyn and when the chances become available, displays his own small exhibits. Other than that, his life as Steve Rogers is extensively normal. He makes good money, is in good health, and is content with himself.

Except, there’s one little thing. Not an inconvenience, per say, but something he definitely runs the extra mile for.

He has a proverbial itch. And he loves scratching it.

An itch to do _more,_ be _more._

It had started off simple—innocent, after a conversation with a particularly talkative customer asking about supplies to make large stencils. Stencils for graffiti. Steve remembers the first night he’d went out to do some of his own. An abandoned warehouse in Hell’s Kitchen had been the first victim of Nomad.

He supposes taking his pseudonym for signing his work to the extent of having it become a well-known political figure _may_ come off as going too far, but Steve’s life as Steve and his spurts of action as Nomad are two separate things. Steve is Steve. Nomad is Nomad.

 _Nomad_ is an anonymous New York-based street artist, vandal, and political activist. Typically recognized by his unique stenciling style, and his distinct portrayal of satire through street art and inflammatory epigrams, Nomad has become quite the living urban legend.

While he makes zero profit from what he does and doesn’t plan to change that, he may or may not have a Wikipedia page, and a slightly cryptic website logging all his works. That part is mostly for fun. He edits the Wiki when he finds little bits of false information.

He’d gotten large with the help of support from popular activists—through viral posts on different sites and so on. His first big hit—the stencil he’s sprayed on the building to the right of NY’s very own Trump Tower, had been _a_ _bit_ of an attention grabber. It’s been nearly a year since then.

Recently, as in today recently, his alias has been re-gaining rapid fire attention after his rather ill-mindedly placed painting **directly onto** Stark Tower. A piece quite obviously headlining the protests against Stark weapons development. The protests and calls for action against Howard Stark that are constantly ignored by not only the man himself, but the federal government as well.

Steve thinks Howard Stark must have shit his pants when he saw it—the masterpiece had been removed from the building only a few hours ago. He’d stopped by Stark Tower during his lunch break to watch from the ground as the last of it was washed away. Steve remains quite proud of himself. The difficulty of getting onto the building’s roof that had nearly killed him was worth every bit of effort he’d exerted. _Sneaking into the building, hiding all day disguised as a custodian, staying in camera blind spots, and climbing to the top_ had been the hardest parts anyway.

It’s bittersweet, because Steve thinks _of course_ Howard had needed to clean it off as soon as possible. With the annual Stark charity gathering— _charity, they call it—_ he can’t host a balcony pavilion party and have the satirical work of Nomad denouncing his life’s work hanging above all his guests. What’s sweet about it—his critical timing had been guaranteed to **really** piss off and embarrass Howard Stark. The inevitable flurry of reporters that will be harping Stark for a statement as the charity ball press rolls in is not a loss either. Not at all.

And as another deliciously added bonus—Steve picks up his phone to reread the text message he’d gotten earlier in the day, feeling positively and helplessly giddy—Bucky had actually fucking done it. Bucky is going to be part of the god damn security for the event. The excitement has him nearly rubbing his hands together and barking out a butchered evil laugh. He restrains himself, and quickly stuffs his phone back into his back pocket as a customer approaches the checkout counter.

Both unsurprisingly and surprisingly, it’s Natasha, and Steve guesses he should be accustomed to not noticing her enter the store, no matter how much it still freaks him out anyway. “Excited for later?” She asks, grabbing a Hershey’s bar from the little box in front of the register. She slides it over to him and Steve rolls his eyes.

“Why would you ask that?” He asks, like Bucky hadn’t sent the message to their group text. Everything has gone perfectly according to plan.

And before she can call him a dumbass, he speaks up again. “How many times are you going to come here and not buy art supplies.” It’s no question, because she does this at least once every few days. Steve appreciates the company of a friend, even if only for a little bit during his day, and he doesn’t have to tell that to Nat. She knows, she shows up. Steve appreciates her ways of knowing.

He rings up her chocolate bar anyway, slides it across the counter, and watches her bite at the plastic before using her hands to tear it open.

Natasha ignores his complaint. “I know you suck so I got you something to wear.” She says and takes a bite.

Steve makes a face, a mix between offense and acceptance, and sighs. “Just don’t ask where I got it. And I’ll need it back tomorrow morning.” She hands him two dollars for the chocolate and is gone before Steve even tries to print out her receipt.

_That’s Natasha for you._

Steve keeps the shop open until seven after dealing with a handful more of regular customers. The anxiety bubbling in his chest and stomach eagerly begins to build up as soon as he finishes closing. And by the time he’s at his apartment, which Bucky and Natasha have already let themselves into, he’s practically shaking—antsy and raring to get the show on the road.

Bucky is already dressed for his job—his hair once again styled in a tightly pulled bun, stray hair slicked back with spray. His friend is wearing a basic black tux, but it fits him well, defines enough muscle to clearly let people know not to fuck with him.

Natasha is messing with his desktop and his printer, while Bucky greets him with a wave and a grin. “God you need a new printer.” Natasha scoffs when she finally looks up at him, raising her eyebrows like he’s supposed to produce one from thin air.

“Well I’m not getting one. That one is fine.” He approaches them and both Bucky and Natasha stop to hold a hand out to halt him. “Go take a shower.” Bucky laughs when Steve gapes. “Your clothes are hanging on the door.” Natasha adds, a satisfied lilt in her voice. Whether it’s from the printer spontaneously beginning to work, or because the clothes he’s not supposed to ask about are on the door, he doesn’t know. He’s afraid that if he asks, Natasha will somehow fit him into a black garbage bag and tell him to go like that.

In the shower, Steve allows the lukewarm water hitting his back to somewhat wash away his anxiety. There’s no way it’s all just going to go away because of a shower, but it helps him relax. He’s doing this. Hell, he’d already broken the law, and last night hadn’t been the first time either. Infiltrating Stark Tower? _Been there._ Doing graffiti on Howard Stark’s property? _Done that._

Even though this time, he’d be doing graffiti _in_ Stark Tower after winding his way through the party. He’d be immersing himself in the social affairs of the very one percent of the one percent that he’d hated for so long. Last night had been one thing, the prequel to what’s really going to set off Howard Stark—tonight’s hit will be revolutionary.

Once Steve is out of the shower, dry and considerably ready to be dressed, he cracks the door open and pulls in the hanger holding up the garment bag Natasha had gotten for him. It takes him a moment to get dressed—everything fits him and he doesn’t give it much of a second thought. Steve can’t help it looks a just a little gaudy—the blazer especially, with it’s patch of white embroidery, sharp and sleek. He stares at himself. He looks like he belongs at Stark Tower. On the end of his blazer’s left sleeve, a patch of fabric is sewed onto the side. _Christion Dior Atelier 3, Rue de Marignan PARIS._ He immediately steps out of the foggy bathroom.

 _Where did she get this?_ He almost wants to ask.

Steve re-enters the main room of the apartment and approaches the couple. They’re in the middle of a conversation.

“And I totally bumped into him. I’m telling you Nat! It was Tony Stark and he looked absolutely out of it. I think I might have bruised his forehead.”

Steve can’t help but choke out a laugh at what he gets out of context. “You bruised Tony Stark’s forehead?”

He doesn’t get an answer when both Bucky and Nat look over at him and gawk.

“What?” He stutters, but he knows why. He looks good, his hair slicked back with a little gel, the tautness of the designer tux on his body, and Steve doesn’t often dress up, so this is a rare sight. Bucky lets out a whistle and Natasha clasps her hands together. “You clean up nicely.” She supplies, and then picks up a small piece of paper—Steve assumes what she needed the printer for—and hands it to him.

It’s an invitation, a forged one, made in the exact style and with the exact paper as the one Bucky had been formally provided with.

Now all that’s left is getting there. Bucky grabs Steve’s pre-prepared bag, and the three of them hail a taxi together. “To Stark Tower.” Natasha says before the driver speaks up. The ride is silent for the most part. Steve appreciates it. It gives him time to think about what’s about to happen. He’ll be acting as Nomad, yet at the same time will be in the presence of multiple people. He can’t get caught—that’s one thing for sure, less he wants to get arrested. Howard Stark could get him locked up for God knows how long. Not only that, but his career as Nomad and as an artist would effectively be washed down the drain. He lives for his work. Without it Steve has no idea what he’d do with himself.

 _Rot in jail._ A voice in his mind supplies.

He sighs from his seat in the back of the cab, earning a questioning glance from Bucky. The cab halts to a stop before his friend can ask. They’ve stopped in the middle of the street, they’re just a tad early, but Steve doesn’t mind. He doesn’t have a fancy car to pull up to the event in, and not all the press has arrived yet. He doesn’t want to attract the attention of cameras on him before the important guests start to flow in. He’ll slide in unnoticed, hopefully.

Natasha pays the cab fare of fifty-two dollars, tips the driver, and the three of them get out. “This will be where you need it.” Bucky lifts the black bag up, holding his stencils and paint cans inside, for emphasis. Steve nods and Natasha waits for the cab to drive away before she pushes Steve’s mask into his hands. “I’ll be across the street waiting.” She turns and points to a small café. Bucky kisses Natasha, then pats Steve’s back and wishes him luck before he’s gone. Steve is left alone on the sidewalk.

He waits.

He stands there for about twenty more minutes. After a handful of the most important guests have walked in—the most camera flashes go off for Bezos, Zuckerberg, and Musk—Steve slips in when one of them throws bread crumbs to the reporters with a few words. His mask is on, a black and white piece covering the tip of his nose up to the middle of his forehead. It fits him almost too well, and he knows he’ll be the most unrecognizable person at this event. All he has to do really is avoid Howard—who must have crafted the guest list himself. Steve _certainly_ is not on it.

He's escorted into elevator as soon as he’s inside, and it takes him a second to realize that it’s Bucky holding his back and leading him into the empty space. The doors slide shut before anyone else can join them, and they ride up to the balcony in silence.

“ _In there, we don’t interact. There are cameras everywhere.”_

Once the elevator comes to a stop, and the doors open, Steve is on his own.

He settles into his mask. He’s Nomad.

***

Tony isn’t really having the best time. He stands in a small, uninteresting circle consisting of himself, his father, Lucien Stone, and Lucien’s son, Tiberius Stone. There’s an obvious tension between Lucien and Howard that makes Tony rolls his eyes behind his golden mask. Their stupid rivalry had gotten old a long time ago, and the hate between the two of them is obvious. Almost everyone who keeps up with business news thinks that both Howard and Lucien must get off on their weird obsession with comparing dick sizes every time they’re in the same space. It’s tiring, and even more so when he has to constantly tell Ty Stone that he’s not interested in getting together for…anything really.

So when Tiberius undoubtedly begins to spark up a conversation between them while their father’s continue the pissing contest, Tony easily interrupts him. “I’m going to uh—over there.” He says quickly, scanning the area behind him.

Near the grand piano on the other side of the room, is a fairly built man, from what Tony can see. He’s alone, a drink in his hand as he seemingly admires the instrument, away from the commotion of socialization. Tony moves to break away from the circle, and Howard pauses to eye him, as if telling him _don’t embarrass me._ Tony acknowledges the warning, but he’s been to enough of these to know proper etiquette. He knows—he was forced to learn the names and work of everyone attending.

As he makes his way towards the piano, he finds himself drawing a blank. _Who is this?_

Tony approaches smoothly. “It’s a Bösendorfer.” He speaks up and sees the man’s hand that had been tracing the case stop. “Imported straight from Austria.” He adds when the man says nothing, doesn’t even turn to look at him. It almost bother’s Tony—that he can’t think of who this is, nor can he immediately command his attention. In fact, the man spends another minute or so just staring at the piano before he turns to face Tony, a small smile set on his face.

“It’s beautiful.” He says. Tony feels the odd urge to tell him that he plays. He stares at the blue eyes behind the mask. There’s something mischievous dancing in them, teasing Tony, daring him to get lost in them. His heart hammers in his chest and suddenly Tony’s throat is a lot drier than it was only moments ago. He’s supposed to _know_ everyone at this event. _Who is he?_ Asking would be undoubtedly rude. Everyone here is somewhere on the Forbes list of this year’s billionaires of the world—hell, Tony had been talking to George Lucas earlier.

Such well-known figures are usually easily recognized when most of them wear skimpy, custom made masks.

Tony’s is a bit decorative. It covers most of his face, his curly hair styled to flop over the gold that covers his forehead. It stops at the tip of his nose, and the pointed, cat-eye shaped eye slits kind of fuck up his peripheral vision, but other than that he still thinks he’s recognizable. He’d been at his father’s side for most of the night anyway, and Howard has a mask with a handle attached to it instead of having it ribbon tied.

“You seem comfortable here.” The man speaks up while Tony mentally chokes. He hums along to the live brass band playing outside—the doors leading to the balcony are open and along with the heater, there’s a nice breeze flowing in. Today had been chosen for this event mostly because the weather—not too freezing or snowing out. “I’m not.” The man continues.

Tony cocks his head to the side. He’s already confused. “Oh please.” Tony can’t stop himself, and continues even when his voice cracks. “Don’t even get me started. I’d be crucified if I wasn’t here.”

The man shifts in his direction, and Tony feels a pang of satisfaction that he’s finally got his attention. “So here we are.” He says, and it makes Tony scoffs a little.

“We? Howard wouldn’t personally crucify **you** if you didn’t show up.” He watches the man’s lips spread into a smile. The way his chest rumbles with laughter behind the Dior he’s wearing has got Tony in a trance.

“You have no idea. Howard Stark would burn me at the stake.”

Tony raises an eyebrow that the man can’t see and purses his lips for extra emphasis that he doubts what was just said. He quickly pursues the statement, feeling bold. “Howard Stark is a cynic and a bastard, why else would he have a ball in his penthouse suite? It’d be suicide to not show up to this…” Tony pauses, remembering the look Howard had given him, the _don’t embarrass me_ look. “To this _shitty_ coke party hiding behind the pretense of a charity event.”

The man, even behind his mask, looks surprised at Tony, if only for a moment. “You’re quite the realist.” He says.

“Maybe so. Idealists don’t get far.” He counters easily, waiting for the mystery man to agree with him, except, that isn’t what he gets.

The man chuckles, laughing at him and Tony doesn’t know where his confidence is going as his cheeks flush in embarrassment. He’s never been more grateful for this stupid mask.

“A hypocrite too. Where would you be without wishful thinking? Where would all these people be? I don’t favor anything about Howard Stark, but once upon a time this building was only a vision in his head. Look at the world around us, then backtrack 50 years and tell me again wishful thinking doesn't get us far.”

Tony swallows and his cheeks remain red because he feels stupid and _he’s not stupid_. He can’t even think of anything to say when the man continues speaking, of all things.

“Everyone in here is an idealist. A cynical idealist. Apparently not you though.” The man is teasing him, Tony knows, but knowing just makes it worse. He clears his throat before he lets himself stumble on his words again.

Tony finally speaks up. “You too then? Where’s all that entitlement coming from? You’re here, you might as well be as awful as the great _idealist_ Howard Stark. Everyone here is running the world. We’re in a room filled with the top one percent of the one percent, and you’re talking about idealism? The elite don’t thrive on wishful thinking. I’m certain you didn’t get here with a little wishful thinking.”

“Dance with me.” The man says instead of responding, that mischievous blue flame still twirling in his eyes.

Tony still doesn’t know who this man is, but seconds after the words are uttered, the two of them are paired together, still somewhat secluded in their spot next to the Bösendorfer, swaying back and forth to the sound of the music flowing in from outside.

Tony closes his eyes wistfully, it's beating so fast that he thinks his heart might explode.

***

Steve feels bad when he slips a hand into Tony Stark’s pocket and steals his SI keycard. He really does, Tony had made it too easy, and really, Steve hadn’t expected the man to so openly express his disdain for his father. Plus, he looks really hot in his suit and the golden mask makes his eyes shine. Steve has the smallest fantasy to court the younger Stark while they’re dancing. However, it’s not hard to ignore.

He’s not at a bar or a club or here to flirt or whisk little billionaires away. He’s here for a hit, and he’s gotten all he needs from the main event.

He doesn’t know why he allows himself to entertain Tony Stark for much longer than he needed to. They stand there dancing for the next few songs, until Steve pulls away and he almost wants to apologize, watching Tony’s eyes flutter open and the shadow of a frown on his lips. It almost hurts to send him away.

“Why don’t you get us some drinks.” He prompts quietly, his voice dismissive and purposefully cold, and watches as Tony actively frowns this time, but concedes.

“I—Okay.” Is all he says before jerkily turning around and walking away to find someone tending to beverages.

When Tony doesn’t look back, Steve practically bolts—a calm, yet rushed stride to the hallway leading to the stairwell. He slips out the exit, unnoticed, and makes his way down the stairs. Using the pickpocketed keycard, he accesses the nearest elevator and lowers himself down one floor. The top floor before the penthouse—where Howard’s office is.

As he makes his way through the dark hallways of the floor, he considers Tony Stark.

He’d have to be a complete idiot not to have recognized the young prodigy, and Tony had certainly made this a lot easier for him by approaching first. Tony was interesting to say the least. Steve hadn’t expected the raw vitriol behind Tony’s words about his father.

What had he called him? _A cynic and a bastard._

Steve guesses that it makes sense in a way, he really doesn’t know anyone who genuinely likes Howard Stark—horny libertarians and the rest of the right-wingers, he doesn’t count.

Still, his conversation with the younger Stark was rather engaging too, and he quite liked the way _Bösendorfer_ sounded on Tony's tongue. _Not to mention the way he’d slotted against Steve when they’d danced, and the way Tony spoke with a semblance of passion in everything he’d said, and how his eyes glowed behind that mask._

Steve is biting at his lip as he approaches Howard’s office. The room is large, the walls are glass, and inside Steve sees a dark mahogany desk, a desktop sitting on it. Outside the door, is his black bag that Bucky must have placed. He doesn't spare a thought to how Bucky had gotten it there, and instead takes off his blazer, giving it a poor fold before he sets it down and picks up his bag.

He gets to work immediately. The two halves of the stencil are smaller versions of what he’d used on the outside of the building. He paints the image onto each of the four walls, and signs his tag— **Nomad—** right onto Howard’s desk. When Steve is finished wiping away any accidental prints from touching the glass, he takes a moment to admire his work, and then leaves the room. Quick and easy.

He squints at where he knows he’d just set down his blazer. It's time to haul ass and get the hell out of here.  _I know I put it right there—_

“Looking for this?”

Steve jumps a little, shocked.

It’s Tony Stark. He steps out of the shadow Steve didn’t see him in and he’s holding up Steve’s borrowed blazer.

Steve doesn’t know if it’s the darkness of the room that’s making the expression on Tony’s face unreadable. He doesn’t really want to find out. Steve swallows. He’d been caught red-handed. The mask feels heavier on his face; he’s glad he hadn’t removed it.

He stalks forward, snatches the blazer, and bolts.

Tony gapes, watching the man sprint across the room like somethings chasing him and head straight into the elevator. Despite the distance now between them, Tony can see the man looking right at him until the elevator doors slide shut.

_What the fuck?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ew can you imagine jeff bezass, mark suckerfuck and elon muskrat at the same party—being hosted by howard stark???? It sounds absolutely terrifying. If they breathe too long around each other millions more workers will be subjected to unfair treatment while theyre forced to package bought and paid for teslas that are being shipped to mars (for free in 2 days). On top of that if you complain online mark zuckerberg will crawl through your screen and just…stare at u. and howard just started ww3.
> 
> Ok yes I came up with this ridiculous AU out of literally nowhere. My mind supplied masquerade ball au and while I was talking to a friend about Banksy this just… happened. [This](https://www.europosters.eu/wall-murals/banksy-graffiti-v34117) is the art by Banksy that I’ve got Steve plastering all over Howard’s shit.
> 
> comments/feedback/kudos are appreciated :)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tony feels like he has something to prove, steve is paranoid, and howard’s still a raging ass.  
> warning for a flashback containing domestic abuse after the words “He lived that truth.” 
> 
> also thank you to [hyzkoa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hyzkoa) who encourages me to keep writing! 
> 
> enjoy :D

_What the fuck?_ Is the first thing Tony thinks once he’s left alone on the floor.

Unfortunately, everything is clicking into place far faster than he would like it to.

Only minutes ago, _Tony had plucked two glasses off the tray of a passing attendant and had swallowed down the climbing flow of dejection upon turning around to see his mystery man stride away—and rather quickly at that._

_Of course, he’d felt prompted to follow after him._

_The man clearly hadn’t mistaken the stairway door for a bathroom, or somewhere to step out for a smoke, as he didn’t come back after realizing where it was that the door led to. Tony hadn’t even known why he’d been making an attempt to gather different conclusions in the first place. Something was clearly off about this man, and now he felt determined to find out. Maybe he doesn’t appreciate being played a fool either._

_He had been drawing a blank on who this character was, and he never forgets things like this. Tony knew for a fact that everyone on the guest list had been to this, or a similar event before, meaning everyone attending had been to Stark Tower before._

_No one should be leaving the floor unless it’s through the main elevator._

_So, Tony had followed him—no one, not even Howard, especially not Howard, was paying much attention to him anyway—waiting a moment before trailing the man down the same hall and down the stairs just in time to see the service elevator close._

_It’s then when he starts feeling uneasy. Tony tears his eyes away from the doors and looks down at his shoes instead as he shoves his hands into his pockets—empty, par from his phone._

_His keycard was gone._

Tony was forced to use his personal access codes instead, and that’s how he’d ended up stumbling across something he evidently wasn’t supposed to see.

In the moments before he’d stepped forward into the light, Tony had three things running through his mind. The first—he’d quite obviously just spent the last half hour with the ever-infamous _Nomad_. Second, the same Nomad had just thoroughly defiled his father’s office, and finally, Tony wasn’t going to do a single thing to stop it.

Watching him work took Tony’s breath away. He drinks him in. The man was fluid with his medium, his movements well-practiced, clearly exhibiting skill. His focus so unbreakable that he evidently didn’t even notice Tony just standing there, taking in Nomad as if he was performing for him, and him alone. It’s a selfish thought, and Tony supposes he’s always been a little selfish as his mind warps this into something intimate, even though it remains as something he shouldn’t even be seeing in the first place.

Of course, for the selfish, what they want always remains out of reach.

When he picked up Nomad’s blazer—the same one he’d been itching to run his hands over not long ago, Tony hadn’t expected the man to retreat so suddenly. He can’t even choose what words to say before the fabric is snatched from his grasp.

So suddenly that Tony can almost taste the desperation to get away in the air. He’s left alone on the floor, Nomad’s bag along with him. It smells strongly of paint, and it takes a moment for Tony to gather his bearings.

He doesn’t immediately return to the party. Instead, he packs up the spray cans left on the floor, zips them into the bag, and heads to the building’s fifth floor.

***

 _I got caught._ Is all that’s running through Steve’s head—from the moment he’d sprinted away from one surprised Tony Stark to the second he’d exited the building.

His heart is pounding in his chest, and he’s clutching onto Tony Stark’s SI keycard like it’s a lifeline as he removes his mask and walks across the street. Natasha is waiting for him in the café, sipping whatever drink she’s ordered in a booth near the back wall. When Steve approaches her, she simply stands, throws her cup away, and pushes a bag into his hands. A change of clothes, presumably. It wouldn’t make sense for him to let more than who he needed seeing him in this get up.

“I’ll catch us a taxi. Hurry up and change.” She says, pursing her lips at his flustered expression. Steve can only manage a short nod before he stumbles to the bathroom doors. It doesn’t take but a short moment, he took the most time somewhat folding the tux he’d been wearing before shoving it into the bag Natasha had handed him.

When he leaves the bathroom, Steve’s got on a simple pair of sweats and a long-sleeved t-shirt that make him feel a lot less worried. Wearing such an expensive tux on its own had him simply worrying about spilling something on it, or creasing the fabrics somehow. The normality and familiarity of things from his own wardrobe is enough to calm his nerves down a notch.

With the job essentially done, the rush of adrenaline is fading, and now he just feels uncomfortably anxious about the last component of all of this—not getting identified.

_I’ve already gotten caught._

He can’t help but let a part of him think of Tony Stark stepping forward from the shadows, and the way his eyes had reflected the light pouring in through the windows, even behind that golden mask. The way they’d danced together, the way they’d challenged each other so easily just a short time ago.

Then he thinks of the stolen keycard, still in his possession, and the bag he’d left behind in his flurry to escape potential jailtime.

He’d messed up big time, and from the way he’d entered the café—all flustered from sprinting out of Stark Tower—Natasha probably has that figured out already. However, when they get into the cab together, the ride back to his apartment is similar to the one only hours ago, silent.

Again, it’s Natasha who pays the driver the cab fare, and as soon as the two of them are safely behind the closed door of his apartment, he can feel that she’s cross with him. It makes him grimace, but he knows he needs to explain everything that had happened.

This was never a one-man job, after all. His two friends had helped and nevertheless supported him since the get-go, from when he’d initially told them about his idea of just painting normal graffiti, to his gig next to Trump Tower, and even what’s to be his notorious double-hit targeting Stark. It wasn’t like he could hide it from them, after all. The both of them being so observant, not trusting them wasn’t an option. The help they provide has gotten him far too. They have as much in this gig as he does.

“We’ll talk when James gets back.” She looks at her phone for the time. “Which is in about an hour or two. So just tell me, you did actually get it done, right?” She looks expectant, but equally as ready for bad news. Steve feels a pang of insult pulse in his chest.

“Of course I did. There was just…” He stutters, not even knowing what to say.

 _Complications_? _Stark’s pretty boy son who I may have spent too much time with not only followed me, probably has my bag, and watched me work for who knows how long?_

Natasha seems to get that he’d rather not let it out just yet, and just shakes her head. “Wait for James. There’s no point explaining what problems you had twice.” She responds, at least seemingly less bitter with him now that he’s confirmed that he actually got the job done.

***

There are three cans of paint in the bag—two black, one red—along with the two halves of the stencil used to paint on his father’s office walls. Tony has the things spread out on the floor as he sits in the surveillance room on floor five. To no surprise, the room had been vacant when he’d entered. Pascal had been fired on such short notice, after all. It shows.

Whoever had coordinated tonight’s security had arranged for both pre-employed and event-only guards to be standing near the obvious entrance points around the perimeter of the building, or lurking around the first floor to intimidate lingering reporters—a limited number of guards remain on the penthouse floor with the partygoers.

Tony sees why it had been easy for Nomad to manage sneaking in the way he did. Posing as a guest—an uninvited one at that. Everything down to the simple theme of the gathering had worked in the man’s favor. Without the mask, Tony would have instantly known that whoever Nomad really was, wasn’t on the guest list.

Nomad obviously had obtained an invitation, and Tony only has a semblance of an idea of how—either he’d had a real guest give him theirs, or he’d possibly forged one. Tony thinks the former, but if the latter, that would mean the exact format and wording of the invitations had been leaked to him somehow.

What he really doesn’t understand, though, is how Nomad had managed to actually get inside without security being alerted of the extra attendee. There had been no extra invitations sent, no plus ones or mishaps on the guest list. They’d never had this problem before.

Tony feels obligated to give credit when it’s due, though, for pointing out that Howard needs to possibly not give out hard copies of tickets _like an idiot baby boomer_ without doing a strict number count on whoever’s using them.

Well. If Howard was mad before…

Tony lets out a breathy laugh that fades into the silence of the empty room.

He had been called a realist—a hypocrite. Of course it all makes sense.

Nomad would be the biggest idealist of them all, a real go-getter if he’d dreamt up a plan like this. The more than obvious dislike of Howard Stark, the way he’d spoon fed Tony with jabs at his father, the mask too thoroughly covering his identifiable features—it makes sense.

At the same time, Tony’s own mask had been boldy decorated, but he was still very much recognizable as the one and only. The way Nomad had spoken to him about his father was…confusing to say the least. Maybe the man had been looking for a negative reaction, poking the bear with a stick. Anyone that knows of him knows he’s Howard’s media-painted poster child.

His little spurts of rebellion in college hadn’t gotten far—none of into the hands sleazy magazine publishers. Not when Howard could offer much more for footage and truthful rumors than what any Star Magazine or Us Weekly might. Hang those types of numbers above the heads of any college student eating cup noodles and packaged nuts and _nothing_ gets leaked.

Pursing his lips, Tony takes another look at the items on the floor.

Nomad had left in such a hurry. He most likely expected him to tell his father, but really, what was there to say to Howard? The man’s best moods surface when he’s faking a smile and mingling in shark tanks full of his peers. As if Tony would even think about waltzing up to his father and telling him that Nomad had somehow broken in and done fucking graffiti in his office.

Howard would blow a fuse as soon as the night was over, and it would very much be blown in his direction. Tony is better off keeping the fact that he’d seen Nomad do any of this under wraps anyway, unless he wants Howard finding a way to tag the blame for this on him otherwise.

That reason alone is enough motivation for Tony to slip into one of the seats in front of surveillance monitor and go about erasing the extent of the night’s footage for the entire floor that he and Nomad had been on, not before making a copy of the feed for his own suspicions.

It’s then that something akin to a desire to push Nomad back blossoms in the back of his mind as Tony loops security footage from earlier in the month over the deleted patches—including any moments of him slinking around alone after Nomad had run off. He’s doing the man that had gotten Pascal fired such a nice favor that _he doesn’t deserve_.

If Nomad thinks that little of him, thinks he can play him like a fiddle, flirt with, dance with, and steal from him so easily, Tony is going to prove him so, utterly wrong.

After clearing any trace of him being on the system, Tony lifts his newly acquired bag and leaves the surveillance room.

He feels giddy.

A switch has flipped inside him that he hasn’t so clearly felt since he’d entered his first robotics competition.

He’s not going to let anyone win against him.

***

When Bucky gets back, it’s late, and Steve’s paranoid expectation that the police are somehow going to come bursting into his common room has died down. He’d still jumped a bit when Bucky had let himself in. He has to remind himself that he’d given Bucky and Nat each a spare key.

Bucky, of the three of them, seems the most excited when he returns, despite being the one who actually worked the longest. The fact that he was the only one getting paid of the three of them probably factors into the grin he has on his face when he plops down on Steve’s chenille couch with such a blissful sigh.

“Who else in this room can say they were five seconds from punching Danny Rand in the face?” He asks smugly, only to groan in exasperation when Natasha raises one hand and lifts up the other to cover a growing smirk. Bucky’s face scrunches up when his girlfriend sits next to him, but wraps an arm around her nonetheless.

Too nervous to laugh, Steve sighs and sits on the ottoman instead to face the pair.

“I got caught.” He says simply. Nat squints and Bucky sits up, the tension in the room rising tenfold.

“Explain.” Bucky shoots back quickly, his laidback attitude overtaken by concern. Natasha’s expression remains neutral, but Steve knows she wants to know just as much as well.

He runs a hand down his face, the butterflies in his stomach flying rampant once again. He’d had a plentiful amount of time to think of how to word this, but that’s exactly what he’d forced himself not to do in the time he and Nat had waited for Bucky to return.

“I—It was fine at first.” He starts simply, the stutter making him clear his throat. “I was going to take the emergency exit stairs down to the next floor, but then Tony Stark—and he…and I-I danced with him, alright? I teased him and talked crap about his dad right to his face and he—he agreed with me! So I asked him to dance and we did and I just sort of…stole his keycard instead of one of the attendants. It was right there! I didn’t think he’d follow me. I swear he didn’t even know I’d taken it—” Steve takes a deep breath, not even realizing how red his face has turned between his flushed stutters and poor, rambled out explanation.

He doesn’t even know when he’d looked down, but when he peaks up at his friends, Bucky and Natasha share a mixed expression of confusion and disbelief.

“And this leads to you getting caught how?” Bucky speaks up. Steve can tell he’s upset.

He rubs a hand down his face. His palms feel slightly sweaty.

“He followed me down because I basically told him to go away after dancing with him. I didn’t realize… He watched me paint Stark’s office. I panicked so I ran off and left everything behind. I had the mask on the whole time but, Howard probably knows what’s happened by now. There’s probably footage of us going up the elevator together. Tony’s going to tell him.” Steve finishes, his mouth dry.

It’s Bucky’s turn to sigh, and Steve can tell this information has stressed his friend out as well, since Bucky pulls his hair from its slicked back bun just to tussle his hands through the brown locks.

Natasha, however, seems confused. She sits up straight, letting Bucky’s arm around her fall onto the couch cushion. “You said he agreed with you? About Howard? And what exactly did you say?”

“I don’t see why that matters—”

Natasha gives him a blank stare, and Steve regrets sitting on the ottoman, having no cushion against his back to recoil against. It’s a nasty look directed at him that he doesn’t want to see.

“I doubt he thought he was unrecognizable. But I knew he didn’t recognize me. It’s probably why he approached me in the first place.” Steve starts, pressing his hands against his knees to refrain from fiddling with them.

He’s far too embarrassed of how selfishly self-indulgent he’d let himself be. It’d put their whole operation in jeopardy. If he gets caught, or Bucky, or to whatever extent Natasha as well, they’re all in for a less than pleasant experience, court, fines, and jailtime. All of them have skin in the game, and they aren’t prepared to just let it get snipped.

“We talked, and hell, he’s the one who started off. Said Stark would crucify him if he didn’t show up to the thing—that his dad is a cynic and a bastard. I can’t say I wasn’t surprised…but at best it was probably just some petty rich kid rebellion, talking about his dad like that with a guest.”

“But what if it wasn’t?” Bucky speaks up after glancing at Natasha.

Steve blinks. How could it not be?

“What if he was being honest with you? He might not have told Stark anything. The security footage, well we knew that would be a problem. It’s why the mask stayed on.” Bucky continues, and Steve can’t help but think the way he sounds so genuinely hopeful is rather off-putting.

Why would Tony Stark even bat an eyelash in sympathy? Steve had quite literally vandalized Stark’s property—twice.

“Just because he called Howard a bastard, you think he’s going to, what, not give a description—just say nothing about what he saw? Some extra zeros probably got scratched out on his allowance. That’s wishful think—” Steve cuts himself off.

 _I’m certain you didn’t get here with a little wishful thinking._ He can practically hear Tony’s stupid teasing voice in his head.

With a frown, Steve suddenly stands from the ottoman. “Forget it. Let yourselves out whenever, I—I need to clear my head.” He mumbles. There’s a mutual silence between Bucky and Natasha as they look at him, and then towards each other. They don’t say anything to him as he pulls on a hoodie and slips out of his apartment.

He makes his way across the pedestrian crossing on Brooklyn Bridge to return to Manhattan for a second time.

***

Steve really can’t help himself.

Stark Tower is huge and flashy, and it seems to leech onto his attention span until he’s once again standing across the street from the huge building. He doesn’t go any closer—returning to the scene of his own crime isn’t wise in the first place. He just wants a moment to…collect himself _and wonder what Tony Stark is doing now, what he’d done after catching him._

When Steve cranes his head back to look up into the distance, he can still see some faint lights shining from the top of the tower. It’d been nearly three hours since he’d left. He’s got no clue what’s still going on up there, and he’s almost glad of it. His gut wrenches just thinking about what he’d done tonight.

Of course, there’s no guilt. He can’t afford to feel guilty, he’s too angry to feel guilty. People like Howard Stark don’t deserve his guilt, and he knows that.

He lived that truth.

***

_A frail, blond boy sits in his small room. He looks about eight years old, maybe nine. He has school in the morning, so he’s finishing up the last bit of his homework before he’s to get ready for bed. He lives in an apartment complex, with his mom, who stays home to take care of him, and his dad, who’d just gotten home from work._

_He jumps a bit when he hears the door slam shut. His heart begins to race. He knows exactly what’s about to happen._

_“Steve!” He hears his name being yelled. It makes him flinch. Steve wants to hide—cover his ears with his pillow, burrow into bed, and pretend none of this is real. He can’t. It’s always been real. It always will be._

_Steve writes the last answer down in his reading comprehension workbook and slaps it shut before stumbling out of his room to greet his father. When he enters the kitchen, his mother is already holding her cheek, looking at him when he enters with tear-filled eyes. He stares at her, worry obvious on his face until his father grabs him by the hair and the only thing on his face is fear._

_He’s forced to look at his father—Steve knows he’d already been out drinking. His Stark Industries uniform looks disheveled, and he smells of alcohol. He tries to turn his head away and close his eyes. It makes his father scoff and push him to the ground. He’s so small it doesn’t take much effort._

_“Hi dad.” He says. The man disregards him as he begins to remove his necktie._

_“Get me a beer from the fridge and turn on the TV.” Steve doesn’t say anything, just gets up and runs to the kitchen before anything else can trigger another reaction. He’s used to this now. Ever since his dad had gotten this job at Stark Industries, he’d been drinking more, yelling more, hitting more. At first there were apologies, excuses of “I didn’t mean to, honey” but it’d only gotten worse and worse and Steve has since decided that he doesn’t like Stark Industries._

_“Oh yeah.” His dad says when he sits down on the couch in front of the television. “I didn’t get that promotion. In fact, I got fired.”_

***

Besides Brooklyn, Steve supposes he owes Hell’s Kitchen a good bit for the development of his graffiti career. The first hit of his that he’d actually tagged as Nomad had been in the district, and that definitely wasn’t the last that he’d done around the area.

It’s his favorite place to freelance—sometimes abandon his usual style or forget about stencils and deviate from his normal subject matter. Not to mention there are a convenient number of little, clean, abandoned spots for him to mark up that don’t seem to ever get tagged, despite just how small Hell’s Kitchen may be.

He’s looking for one now, now that he’s somewhat cleansed his mind of earlier in the night and is really trying to clear his head this time around. Since he hadn’t brought any supplies with him, he can only wander around looking for bare walls or leftover space in between what is already taken.

He wanders into a somewhat long alley, surprisingly barren of any people and begins to scope out one side of the empty wall. He’s almost sure the properties on each side are inhabited by residents, so he most likely won’t claim the space anyway. He stands there for a good few minutes, barely seeing in the dark as he stares at a wall full of nothing.

_This is a waste of my time. Maybe I’ll just go back to my place and the police will have the cuffs ready for me already. That’d be less stressful._

“Hey. What are you doing back there?” Another person has entered the alleyway.

Startled, Steve flinches a little, but doesn’t answer quite yet.

_What am I doing? Clearing my head? By looking at bare concrete and dusty brick walls? Am I really? Then why is that feeling in my stomach still crawling around?_

The cold has been biting him through his little hoodie and t-shirt since he’d left his apartment, but when he shivers, it’s because he wishes so badly that he could sink into the walls around him. His paranoia still running rampant, he supposes. He can’t quite piece together why it all feels so much more intensified this time.

He’s processed that the odds are still in his favor—that his face hadn’t been seen, he’d wiped his prints. It had been _thorough_. He’d done what he’d had to do, like always. Maybe he just doesn’t want to admit, not even to himself, that he’s terrified of being caught by Howard Stark.

“I asked you a question big guy.” It’s a woman, Steve looks up, feeling slightly less disoriented.

Her hair is visibly black, even in the dark—she’s got a leather jacket on, fingerless gloves, and an expensive-looking hanging from her neck. Steve doesn’t know what to make of her, or better yet what she’s doing in the same alley asking him just that.

Steve opens his mouth to speak, but nothing manages to leave his mouth but a small choke of air when she strides over to him and grabs to strings of his hoodie to literally yank his attention in her direction.

He chokes again, startled as she examines him, her camera strap thick around her neck. Even in the dark, the dimmed streetlights outside the alley allow him to get a good look at it—a Nikon, with larger lens attached.

“I’m not…doing anything.” He says, slowly and clearly. “Just taking a walk, ma’am.”

He almost wishes it was darker out, after seeing the woman grimace at him as she let’s go of his hoodie strings and takes a single, short step backwards. “Yeah. Taking a walk at three in the morning in an alley full of _Hydra_ shit.”

_Three in the morning? Did she say Hydra?_

She scoffs, and Steve holds his breath as he quickly pulls his phone out of his back pocket, points it at the wall, and turns on the flashlight.

A deep, wine red circle covers the wall opposite the side he’d been eyeing. Inside it, in the same color, is a skull and six tentacles protruding around it. The paint must have dripped before drying—free hand—and makes the picture look infinitely more ominous while visible with only the light of his flashlight. It’s been painted on top of whatever had been on the wall before.

He knows this symbol.

Anyone—everyone in the New York graffiti scene knows this symbol.

Hydra. They’re infamous among the infamous. A group of taggers that are solely known for their uninhibited violence. Their graffiti is mediocre, at best, but that’s never what they’d made do from, usually just painting their wretched symbol anywhere they leave a half-to-death beaten body or befuddled armed-robbery victim.

Steve knows he breaks the law on a regular basis, and call him a hypocrite, but Hydra goes much further than anything he’s done. A gang of ragtag criminals who wear masks to hide their identities; they steal, assault, and harass and Steve won’t try and doubt the rumors of murder that seem to follow anyone’s mentions of the group.

They were the ones who’d put Bucky in the hospital and permanently damaged his arm, after all.

“Earth to asshole.” The woman breaks his train of thought, and Steve turns his flashlight to the ground as he faces her again. She considers him for a moment. “You know something.” She asks, but it’s no question she doesn’t already know the answer to. The way she’d said it, she almost reminds him of Natasha.

_Natasha. Natasha and Bucky would know a thing or two about Hydra._

“I don’t know anything you don’t.” Steve answers, lies. He motions to the wall. “You said it yourself. Hydra. They’re no good. But…”

“But? Spit it out.”

“But I thought they’d disbanded. Thought they weren’t a thing anymore.” He finishes, his words clipped.

He doesn’t have a clue what the woman with the camera is up to, why she’s snooping around looking for information on Hydra, or what in God’s name she thinks of him, but it’d probably be in his best interest to get out of her direct suspicions and away from this alleyway as soon as possible.

“Listen, ma’am—” Steve starts again, but cuts himself off when the woman looks away from him, uninterested in his words as she digs into her pocket and pulls out a marker. Stepping forward, she uncaps the marker and grabs his wrist with a surprisingly firm grip.

Steve attempts to pull away, but she nor his wrist even budge. His eyes widen a bit in shock at how strong she is, but she speaks up before he can further express himself about it. “A client of mine’s boyfriend just got the shit kicked out of him by Hydra. Disbanded my ass. He’s in the ER and I’m getting paid to find out who exactly put him there. You obviously know something, but you aren’t talking now. You will. Call this number when you have something useful on Hydra.”

The woman lets go of him after she’s finished writing, and Steve raises his phone to shine his flashlight onto his hand.

“Sorry I don’t have any cards on me.” She adds after seeing him look at his hand.

_Alias Investigations_

_Jessica Jones_

_212-256-1084_

When Steve lifts his head up, the woman, Jessica Jones, he assumes, is gone.

But she’d come bearing news. Bad news. Hydra’s heads do grow back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next chapter will include howards reaction to his office (thanks steve) tonys inner detective coming out (watch out steve), and a new character appearance
> 
> speaking of new characters, anyone guess Jess Jones before i mentioned her name? (i think it was pretty obvious lol)
> 
> also, my updating is pretty sporadic on a regular basis, but I’m moving next week so if I don’t update sooner than later that’s why!
> 
> comments/feedback/kudos appreciated!


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